Black Mountain

by Laird Barron

  “What’s his face,” he said. “The Mexican.”

  “Which one? There are four of them.”

  “Dan.”

  “Mexican Dan?”

  “Dan, usually. I go with whoever’s on deck.”

  “Ah, so it’s more accurate to say you deal with the Mexicans, not the Mexican.”

  “Yeah, it’s usually Dan, though. We’re tight.”

  “Bookie by committee is the definition of impersonal. Miss a payment or two, some thug like Royal will be knocking on your door with an updated installment plan. Stick with Dan. Keep it friendly.”

  “Gracias, Uncle Dad. Long as they don’t hire you to kneecap me, I’m safe.”

  “Right. Oh, and on a different subject.”

  “For the love of . . . what?”

  “Remember at the restaurant, that man in the ball cap sitting near the far window?”

  “Ordered clam soup. Braver than I’ll ever be, trusting restaurant clams this far inland.”

  “Did he seem familiar?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “I recognized him from an ’80s TV show. Asked for his autograph while you were in the john.”

  “No way.”

  “Don’t be petulant. The universe is a cruel mistress.”

  “Bullshit. Life ain’t that on the nose.”

  I slapped the napkin with its scrawled signature on the dash.

  “Read it and weep.”

  “I might.” He rubbed his eye. “Isaiah, do you have any friends from the days of remember when?”

  “Outfit buddies or buddy-buddies?”

  “Any buddies.”

  “I know a few. Buddies might be a stretch. Individuals who don’t wish me dead would be closer.”

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It rained overnight, then cleared. Minerva paced me on our dawn jog. We raced through a misty world of shiny puddles, dead leaves, and raccoon crap—a doggy theme park.

  Jogging isn’t crucial to my physical health. It’s a meditation; my time to reflect on what I’ve done and what I’m going to do. It’s serious business, like changing bandages on a permanent wound that will go septic if I neglect the duty. I reflect upon people and dogs who’ve died on me; and I reflect upon those I’ve killed. I envision my own demise and the endless variety of how such an end might be accomplished. Gene K never saw the wisdom in dwelling on ineluctable fate, of rolling in misery as a dog rolls in shit, but he hadn’t aspired to the Bushi code. Neither did I, in my heart of hearts; although a fool can delude himself to the bitter end.

  After the run, I changed clothes, drove into north Kingston, and loitered at the Darabont Business Plaza. I kept a semi-low profile, intent upon monitoring Burt Plantagenet’s granddaughter, Aubrey—and scoping any unfriendly types who might be watching her as well. I didn’t spot any.

  The attempt at subtlety didn’t make a difference. Trouble sticks to my shoes.

  “You’re the dirty bastard who broke Chuck Bachelor’s leg.” Aubrey P marched across the lot to confront me. She reached into her oversized purse. A peace sign was stitched on it.

  “We’ve mended fences. We’re tight like Reagan and Gorbachev.” My arms were spread along the top of the bench from which I’d innocently spied upon her comings and goings. “Say, Aubrey, do you have a firearm in there?” A purse that size, she could’ve stowed a bazooka.

  She didn’t answer; merely smiled a cold smile worthy of a spaghetti western gunfighter.

  “Well, I come in peace,” I said. “You know who I am. The guy who busted Chuck Bachelor’s leg and ruined his career as Dino the Ax’s errand boy.”

  “Yeah, you’re hard to miss.” She took a breath. “Burt says Chuck had it coming. Chuck said he had it coming. I haven’t decided. You look like an asshole.”

  “Sometimes a cigar is a cigar. In any event, as I said, politics shift—we’re bosom buddies.”

  “Doesn’t explain why you’re lurking here.”

  “Lurking is an integral part of my skill set. I was assessing your salon and environs—wanted to ascertain whether anybody might be watching you besides yours truly.”

  “Chuck said you’re a for-hire type.”

  “Have brass knuckles—will travel.”

  “Who paid you to follow me around?”

  “Interesting question. You haven’t spoken with your old friend Chuck recently?”

  “Been a while. None of your damned business.”

  “He obviously talks with Burt. Your grandfather is concerned you might be in trouble. Chuck is too. My investigation leads me to concur.”

  She finally blinked.

  “Investigation? Burt sent you to . . . what?”

  “To do what I do.”

  Aubrey P stood around five-nine, rawboned and fair. Twenty-three, twenty-four. She didn’t bear much resemblance to her grandfather except for the set of her jaw and raspy inflection. She wore a hoodie, linen pants, and track shoes. No ring.

  I was still calculating whether I could cover the distance between us before she dragged her pistola free when she relaxed and removed her hand from the purse.

  “Who am I kidding?” she said.

  I patted my chest and exhaled.

  “For what it’s worth, my heart believed you.”

  “No, I have a gun. I don’t think I could pull the trigger.”

  “Here’s to you never being put to the test,” I said. “Coffee? I could use some coffee. Directly injected into my right ventricle.”

  * * *

  —

  I BOUGHT AUBREY a coffee at a bagel shop. We walked into the park that stretched behind the plaza and stood near a duck pond. Ducks bobbed amongst slicks of green-and-white scum, as advertised.

  “The artillery,” I said. “Burt didn’t mention you were armed and dangerous.”

  “Because I keep some details to myself. He’s got hypertension. Had it since the war. He’s gonna stroke out, as it is. You’ve met him. He’s too old to be carrying that kind of weight. My problem isn’t helping.”

  A geezer in all-plaid went past, towed by a glossy black Lab. The dog smiled to let me in on the secret—he had his human on a leash.

  “Your stalker problem,” I said. “Let’s discuss it.”

  “Whatever Burt told you, it’s worse,” Aubrey said.

  “You call your grandfather by his given name?”

  “Again, none of your business . . . What did he say?”

  “He told me you’re being harassed and that it’s getting rough,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Give me your definition of rough.”

  “Anonymous phone threats. Slashed tires. Cars cruising past my house superslow in the dead of night. They killed my cat. I bought a pistol as soon as I could. Bastards. I loved that cat.” I expected her to cry, but she didn’t.

  “What was your cat’s name?”

  “Ms. July. Found her abandoned in a ditch the last weekend of July, ten years ago. My dad thought it would be funny to call her Ms. July. Like the pinups.”

  “My condolences,” I said. “Here’s what your grandfather said—you style hair at the Nitty-Gritty Beauty Salon; you’re involved with Walter Connell, a young man who skipped college and went directly into his father’s construction firm. Working his way up from the bottom. I respect that. By all accounts, you’re both good eggs. Walter’s rough around the edges. Drinks too much, runs his mouth at the tavern, gets in scuffles. Nothing serious; he’s no tough guy. This is the book on Walter?”

  “That’s the book on Walt.” She lowered her gaze.

  “You want to marry him and he wants to marry you?” After she nodded, I said, “Regrettably, there’s a major snag. Walter’s former lover, one Elvira Trask, objects to the proposed union. She’s
a criminal from a family of criminals. Small-ball, but mean as a scorpion. The Trasks push pills and steal cars. The boldest and brightest run short cons and commit the odd robbery. Shake down rival dealers. Cunning as rats. They keep below the mob’s radar. A nibble here, a nibble there. This is your opposition.”

  “Yes, that’s the picture.”

  “How did it start between you and Elvira? Face-to-face, phone call, or an intermediary?”

  “Phone call at work. A woman introduced herself as Elvira; said she was extra-special friends with Walter and that I’d be sorry for touching him. I didn’t take it seriously. Lots of girls chased after Walter before we got together. I figured she was a loony. Except, Walter freaked when I told him, explained she and her family were hard-core.”

  “He wasn’t kidding. You have a concealed carry permit, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Get one since you’re packing heat in your purse. Cops take a dim view. And if you have to ventilate a bad guy, your paperwork best be in order.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. Next point—you received a blackmail note.”

  “Day after they killed my cat. Looked like a ransom letter—cut and pasted from magazines. 50k and you won’t bleed on your wedding day.”

  “Do either you or Walter have access to that kind of money?”

  She laughed; cynical, although not bitter.

  “Ha! We’re paycheck-to-paycheck. Walt’s dad skates on the ragged edge of receivership. He despises me. I called him a cokehead. He hasn’t forgotten. Grandpa might be sitting on a nest egg. I’d never ask him. He has expenses . . . the gym, hired goons. I doubt you come cheap either.”

  I wondered what gave the Trasks the idea they might extort fifty large from poor folk.

  “The police have anything to say about your case?”

  “The police are goddamned useless.”

  “It isn’t their job to be helpful. What have they passed along?”

  “Claim they can’t act until something happens. Like, if I get my throat cut, then okay.”

  “All pretty standard. This next question is worth double points. Have you reached out to anyone?”

  “You mean, have I approached Chuck or his uncle?” she said.

  “Right. I’m more concerned whether you’ve enlisted Dino’s aid. If you’ve involved the mob, I can’t interfere.”

  “No. I’m not wild about the Italian crowd. Is that a code of ethics, or what? The noninterference part?”

  “One way to put it,” I said. “Another way is, it’s me avoiding a bullet behind the ear. You think of these people in terms of your family, friends, colleagues. Chuck, Uncle Dino, Uncle Dino’s hilarious pals, Mike the Machete and Tommy-Two-in-the-Brain. Incorrect. They aren’t human beings, they’re creatures from the Black Forest. Wolves.”

  “Besides Walt and Granddad, you’re the only person I’ve spoken with . . . Jesus.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can do to put a stop to the harassment and avenge your cat.”

  “Avenge my cat? Are you serious?” She studied my face. “You are.”

  “Ms. July clinched it. Animals tend to represent our purest selves. I’ll go a long way past the line in the name of an innocent creature.”

  “Wait, wait. Before this goes any further . . . Would she back off if I paid? Fifty isn’t realistic. What if Walter and I raised some of it? Like, if we scraped fifteen or twenty together?”

  “Absolutely, it would help,” I said. “Until she gets hungry again. Sooner or later, Elvira Trask and her crew will cut the foreplay and move on you. This type of element sticks to a game plan—and the plan is to bleed you. Once they’ve extracted whatever you’ll give, matters will escalate.”

  “Escalate?” she said. “That’s not a reassuring word.”

  “I don’t have a crystal ball, lady. Educated guess? The Trasks increase the pressure in order to extort more cash. Victims will go to terrible lengths to pay off a relentless bad guy. People will sell houses, cars, plunder the kiddies’ college savings. She’ll wait to see if you crack.”

  “I won’t crack.”

  “Yes, and it will escalate anyway. You’re lucky, it’ll be broken bones and a stern warning and she’ll be satisfied that her honor is avenged. You’re not so lucky, she’ll carve her initials into your face. You’re really unlucky, she and her homies will drop you in a hole with a bag of lime. Any of those outcomes will stress your grandpa’s bum ticker.”

  “All right, I’ll wrap my head around this information. What happens next?”

  “What happens next is, I chat with your boyfriend, hear his perspective. Then, I’ll probably reunite you with your cousin. He and his homies will shadow you during the day shift. Nights, my partner Lionel or I will sleep on the couch. Tonight, I’ll have Chuck’s crew sit in the driveway for a few hours. I have a pressing errand.”

  “As in full-time bodyguards?”

  “As in, yes. These amateur criminal families aren’t organized as the mob. That doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”

  “Gotta admit, Mr. Coleridge, you dudes camped out at the apartment and the salon might cramp my style.”

  “Pshaw!” I said with forced cheer. “It won’t be a big deal. During daylight hours, it’s work and errands—you won’t even notice us. Kick back, watch Netflix, binge on ice cream, and abstain from noisy sex with your beau. The whole ordeal will be resolved within a few days. A week, tops.”

  “Ugh,” she said.

  I had to agree.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Harold Lee’s profession seldom required gunplay. Men in the enforcement-and-collection racket nonetheless demonstrate an almost pathological obsession with firearms. Lee’s receipts were an arrow guiding me to the next point of inquiry—Crawford’s Bullet Shack, located on the borderlands of Rosendale.

  Incidentally, Lionel and I routinely frequented this store. The genial co-owners appreciated that we purchased buckets of ammo for target shooting. No pussyfooting required—I presented the newspaper article on Harold Lee’s demise and explained I’d accepted the investigation.

  Thad and Bonner, the brothers who ran the store, were a pair of Carhartt-wearing, whiskey-swilling good ol’ boys. They tripped over themselves to assist my investigation. It didn’t hurt that as we chatted, I splurged on one hundred dollars’ worth of .38 and .308 rounds.

  I showed off Delia’s photo and another I’d obtained of Ray Anderson (mousy, forty-ish). The brothers didn’t recognize either person. Regretfully, in Delia’s case.

  Bonner locked the door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. We went into the backyard, which they’d enclosed to create a private shooting range, and sat in lawn chairs in the sandy patio area. Thad poured each of us a tall glass of hard lemonade.

  “Harry ran with a tough crowd,” Bonner said. “We didn’t pry into his affairs, did we, T?”

  “Not goddamned likely,” Thad said.

  “He was mixed up with the mob. I mean, we ain’t idiots—obviously, he worked for loan sharks. Smashed hands in filing drawers, and what have you. Everybody knew that.”

  “He was nice about it, though. Polite.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bonner said. “Extra-polite, is what people said. First-class gentleman, is what I say.”

  When had they last seen Lee and did they notice anything different in his behavior?

  “Must’ve been the last week of August he come in to browse,” Bonner said. “He didn’t act nervous or out of sorts. Said he’d dropped a heap on the Giants and couldn’t afford his layaway until Christmas. Shot the shit and moved on. I didn’t believe him about the Giants, by the by. Harry was conservative. I think it was his grandkid—she’s got a heart condition. Two or three years ago, she needed surgery. Harry was outta his mind trying to raise the dough. He had a soft heart. I heard the family don
’t talk to him or nothin’.”

  “Gents, you’ve stoked my curiosity,” I said. “Is it too indelicate to inquire what Harry was saving his pennies for?”

  “Mossberg 590 Tactical,” Thad said. “Tri-rail, laser sight. Bear slugs.”

  “Harry owned a .223 for deer hunting and a .22 pistol,” Bonner said. “Surprised me he wanted the Mossberg. Outta character. I mean, it’s a beast. His business, though. If he wanted an elephant gun, I’d put the order in. We accept cash or plastic and tend to our own knitting.”

  “Was he after black bear?” I said. “The Mossberg would certainly do the job.”

  “Harry only went for animals he could eat. He didn’t care for the taste of bear.”

  I sipped my drink and dwelled upon the ramifications. A tactical shotgun wasn’t remotely the sort of tool Harold Lee normally used. Home defense? Nine rounds, alternating between slugs and buckshot, would annihilate nearly anything or anyone not protected by armor plating.

  “Ever meet any of Lee’s friends?”

  “The black guy? Sure, now and then he walked in with Harry. Didn’t say a whole lot. Kinda hard to get a read on him, y’know?” Bonner looked at his brother. “What’d you think of the fella? The black dude. Remember? Tats, soft-spoken—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, so?”

  “Scary mofo,” Thad said.

  “Scary?” I said.

  “Dead eyes,” Thad said. “The kid smiles and says the right things, but he’s got them dead eyes. Seen a few soldiers come home with those same eyes. Not as bad, maybe. He didn’t realize I was watching him ogle the knives in the display. His expression went slack like somebody pulled his plug. Except, he loved them blades. That’s the second his eyes came alive. Crazy, sick eyes.”

  Bonner gave me a shrug, as if to say, Who knew?

  I made a note and then asked whether the police had put in an appearance at the Shack. The brothers shrugged and Bonner topped off my glass. No cops yet. The gears of bureaucracy grind slowly, yes? This confirmed what I’d suspected at the outset—John Law wasn’t in any hurry to solve the Harold Lee equation, even though Curtis had pull at Kingston PD headquarters and at least two detectives in his pocket.